


Speak In Different Voices

by althusserarien (ArmchairElvis)



Category: House M.D.
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-22
Updated: 2010-08-22
Packaged: 2017-10-11 04:58:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/108676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArmchairElvis/pseuds/althusserarien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>All House can hope for is something approaching equilibrium</i>. <br/>Pre-series. Thanks to <b>pwcorgigirl</b> for nitpicking and <b>topaz_eyes</b> for reminding me not to forget this one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Speak In Different Voices

_It wears me out.  
And if I could be who you wanted   
all the time._  
Radiohead // Fake Plastic Trees

_1995_

House considered it to his credit that he'd realised that something was wrong at all.

His girlfriend was broadcasting her displeasure in signals, and while House could easily tell the difference between a rash caused by erythema multiforme and one caused by varicella, he found Stacy's communication much more mystifying.

It wasn't as if he hadn't noticed that Stacy was angry and distracted, but rather that he couldn't tell any more than that. House had no idea _how_ angry she was. The motivation behind Stacy's belaboured sighs and quiet moods was opaque, as indecipherable as hieroglyphics. Or even more so, since he knew a little of those.

House thought about this as he took the stairs in threes to Wilson's floor. Sometimes Wilson's relationship advice was useless (like the disastrous swing dance lessons), but he got it right most of the time. Most importantly, he was Stacy's friend.

Wilson's office door was closed, but the light was on. House opened it and plopped down on the couch, a blocky beige IKEA number with a name like Plønk or Sven. This was Wilson's charting time (House knew for a fact that he even wrote this in his daybook), and a small neat pile of folders was squared off on one side of his desk. He was bent over a spine-rolled magazine.

"One day," Wilson said as he underlined something on his notepad, "You're going to knock, and I'm going to drop dead of a heart attack."

House settled his feet comfortably on Björn's headrest and said "Yeah, well. Lang's looking for me. Besides, you get an office all to yourself, and I have to work in the ID bullpen. Smells like feet and disinfectant from the janitor's closet next door."

House propped himself up on his elbows just long enough to see what Wilson was reading. Oncology journal. Finished all his charts.

Wilson turned a page serenely. He hadn't risen to the bait yet. "You've pissed too many people off to get an office." Another page, then an attempt at withering. "Did you check to see if Lang followed you?"

House re-crossed his feet. "You, on the other hand, have kissed enough ass to get an office and a cushy research position. I'll bet old Thompson looks behind his back when you walk by him. '_Et tu_, Wilson', you know?"

Lang wanted House to present a case at M &amp; M next week. Old woman. Bloody diarrhea. Respiratory failure, death. House didn't know what killed her, and he couldn't get the thought of her out of his head, all thin bones and skin as white as paper, dying in a day of something he should have caught.

Wilson put his pen down, very deliberately. Oh yeah, that one annoyed him. "What do you want, House?" The tone saying _because I have much more important things to be doing here_.

House swung himself to his feet and glanced out Wilson's window. It was tiny, but at least it opened. The windows in the sub-basement inhabited by Infectious Disease hadn't been opened since the dawn of the age of antisepsis. "What's that you're doing? Your irritability says you're drafting a rebuttal."

""Langerhans cell histiocytosis." Wilson picked up the journal and waved it vaguely in House's direction, as if demonstrating its importance.

"Oh, God," House said. "You're not wading into that reactive versus neoplastic debate again, are you? Oncologists really know how to get down. I should invite you to one of my parties."

Histiocytosis. If he'd been able to do an autopsy...

"House, you don't throw parties. You crash other people's. _This_ guy-" (gesturing with the journal again) "-doesn't know what he's talking about. You came to talk to me for a reason, otherwise you would have used the phone. What do you want?"

"Maybe I just want lunch."

"Lunch is not nearly this annoying." Trust Wilson to have a scale of annoyances. House wondered where spending the rest of the afternoon in this office would go on the scale.

House turned away from the window and sat in the chair opposite Wilson's desk. He shrugged, then said "Stacy's angry at me."

Wilson picked up his pen as if he were about to write something, the words forming themselves on his lips, and then he gave his head a little head shake and put the pen down. "You came to talk to me because your girlfriend's angry at you?"

"She's _your_ friend. She's snapping at me." House caught himself just before he said something like _tell me what to do_, but that was what he wanted. Wilson was usually brimming with annoying relationship advice. House was at his wit's end. The atmosphere in the apartment had been icy for days, and he wanted a) sex and b) a sigh-free atmosphere.

He wanted peace, really, something stable. Somewhere he could go to roll back the storm clouds in his head.

"She's snapping at you? I'm not a camp counselor, you know."

House imagined Wilson gingerly picking toasted marshmallows off sticks and mincing through the undergrowth in his expensive loafers. Had Wilson ever been camping? They should go. Camp by a river or a lake or something, you know. Testosterone and beer. And fire. Sunshine and insects.

"She's been angry with me for _days_. I don't know what I did. Haven't you got some sort of… method… for things like this?"

Wilson crossed his arms, maybe looking back over the span of two marriages to recall methods. House fiddled with Wilson's paperclip holder, a habit he knew Wilson found annoying.

"Okay," Wilson said. "Do you know why she's angry? Is she irritable? Pissy? Peeved? Cross? Offended?"

House shrugged, shook his head. "I don't know. I didn't have a thesaurus with me."

"You haven't forgotten a birthday?" No. "Are you more of a slob than usual?" No. "Did you get a hard case and ignore her for days?" No. "Your poker buddies didn't trash the apartment, nothing like that?" No.

"This is ridiculous." Wilson sighed, eyeing the article unsubtly. House gave the paperclip holder an extra shake, then moved to the door to peek out into the corridor.

"I threw a bachelor's party for a guy I knew in med school," House said. "Campus police got called. Your first bachelor's party was pretty good."

"Stop fidgeting, you're making me dizzy. The party was insane and I'd rather forget it."

House could smell the excellent coffee brewing in the Oncology breakroom, the machine courtesy the bountiful coffers of Stoia Tucker Pharmaceuticals. He leant against the doorframe and said "Okay. I might have been a little... distant. Lately." It felt strange saying even that. Cold.

Wilson cleared his throat, his eyes flicking over House. Under the microscope. "Are you sleeping okay? You look tired." _Read between the lines_, House thought. _I look like crap_. He glanced at the carpet between his feet, put a hand into his pocket to jingle change. When Wilson finally looked away he said "Have you ever been camping?"

"That bad, huh?"

House nodded and smiled slightly, feeling okay again.

Wilson leaned back in his chair and motioned House to sit down again. "I've got an idea."

…

The following morning, House was about to leave for work when he decided to go through Stacy's work bag. He was looking for twenty bucks so he didn't have to go to the ATM.

She had a pamphlet folded up in a side pocket, right next to her glasses case. On the front House could see a nauseating stock image: a soulful-looking man with a chiseled jaw holding the hand of a woman with a look of vague concern on her face. As Stacy clacked around the kitchen in her work shoes, House took it out and unfolded it.

_More than just sad: Is someone you know depressed?_ There was a subtitle underneath: _How men experience depression._

On the back there was a stamp with the address of a local shrink. House stuffed the whole thing back into Stacy's bag and poked his head into the kitchen.

"You haven't got anything on tomorrow night, have you?"

"No," Stacy said. "The meeting got moved to Wednesdays, remember?"

"Okay," House said. "Bye."

"Have a nice day at work," Stacy said. And as he turned to walk out the door, snagging his helmet from the entry table, she said "Greg, are you sure there isn't-"

The door cut her off mid-sentence. House sped the whole way to work, the roads clear and the air fresh, blaring horns and traffic only a minor inconvenience, and he couldn't decide if he was angry or confused.

...

House checked his tie in the rear-vision mirror again, then turned the volume up on the radio slightly. He was in the car, sitting right outside Stacy's work building.

"…And tune the radio to something she likes," Wilson had said. "Not one of your old Stones tapes or whatever."

"She listens to WPRB in the car," House said. Princeton's best college radio, all the grunge and experimental stuff you could get.

"House," Wilson said, not without a note of condescension. "She listens to WPRB in the car because you do. You've gotta make an effort here."

So House had tuned the radio to something soft and classical. He didn't mind it, really, just not when he was driving. Desperate measures. He was dressed up, and he was sitting in his beater of a car outside Stacy's work. He felt like an idiot.

_This had better work_, he thought.

Stacy looked surprised when she came out the front door twenty minutes late, her briefcase over her shoulder and a sheaf of documents in the crook of the other elbow. Not angry, just surprised. House rolled down the window.

"Greg," she said, "What are you – What are you _wearing?_"

"A suit," House said, trying not to look uncomfortable. "I do have one." Dusk was lengthening the shadows, and House liked how she looked with a few end-of-the-day strands of hair falling against her face.

Stacy had opened her mouth to say more, but he leant across and opened the passenger door.

"C'mon," he said. "We're going out."

Dinner was great. His steak was superb, and Stacy made him try some of the _tarte tatin_ she had for dessert, holding out a forkful of apple and lemon. It was nice. The waiter wasn't overly annoying, and even though the meal cost more than what House paid for food in a week when he was single, he didn't begrudge it. It was fun. He and Stacy talked about all the things they hadn't talked about for a while – Stacy's cases at work, his cases at work, movies, music. Normal stuff.

House still had the lemon taste of Stacy's dessert in his mouth when he led her to the passenger side of the car, pressed her up against the window and kissed her. She moaned slightly and pushed back against his mouth, her hands pulling at the front of his shirt, warm through the cotton, and all of a sudden House was as horny as hell. Stacy rested her hand on his leg as he drove home, and before they were through the door she had her hands on his chest, driving her mouth into his, pressing her thigh hard against his crotch.

They left a trail of clothing on the way to the bedroom, House's nice blue suit coat (job interviews and funerals) flung over a chair, Stacy's black dress (_thank goodness I didn't dress down for work today_, she'd said, even though House didn't care either way) lying flat on the hallway floor. He stepped out of his trousers as she undid her bra, and then he moved forward and put his hands on her hips, putting his face to her chest as she put her hands on his shoulders and arched forward.

When House came out of the shower, Stacy was sitting up in bed reading. He pulled some pyjama pants on and hopped into bed. Stacy put down her book and trailed a hand up his chest to his chin, pulling his face down to hers. He felt a little strange. As if something had changed. As if he was two people, one here, the other still inside the roaring vacuum in his head.

"So," she said. "What did you want to tell me?" She put the book and her reading glasses down on the nightstand and stared at him. Unnervingly. Crap.

"What do you mean?"

"Tonight. You've got bad news. Did you lose your job?" House thought she was being sarcastic for a moment, but her brow was furrowed. Serious.

House laughed, just a little. "No, I… No."

"Then what?"

He cleared his throat. "Stacy, I just…" Wait. "You seriously think that if I lost my only source of income my first instinct would be to take you out to dinner?

Stacy drew her knees up to her chest and rested her folded arms on them. "Oh, no. You're on probation again."

"Jesus, Stacy!" House spread his arms. "This has _nothing_ to do with my job!" His voice seemed very loud, even to himself.

Stacy was staring at him again. He got up out of bed and went into the kitchen to grab a beer. He opened it and took the first couple of swigs staring out the window, into the street.

_This isn't going to work_, he thought.

Stacy padded out of the bedroom, her face softer. She stood at the entrance to the kitchen, leaning against the refrigerator. She folded her arms around herself as if she was cold.

"Greg." Stacy's voice was soft. Every time she used that voice, House remembered why he liked living with her. "Why the gas station flowers? Why the dinner?"

He picked at the bottle label with a thumbnail, then said "You weren't talking to me."

Stacy raised her eyebrows, adopting what House thought of as her "cross-examining face". If Stacy was a trial lawyer, that would be the face she would use. House started talking again quickly, trying to plug the gaps.

"I mean, I never do the dishes, so it couldn't be that. I don't spend more time with Wilson. My job is the same. Nothing's changed. And you were pissy." Pissy. God.

"You shouldn't be proud of the fact that you never do the dishes," Stacy said.

"Stacy," House said, and put the bottle down on the sink. Would it be too much to drink another? Probably, since he had work tomorrow. "Look-"

"-Greg, I know why you did it. You thought I was angry. I'm not angry at you, I just…" Stacy picked at the hem of her dressing gown, her fingers quick and trembly. "You were getting too hard to live with."

House opened his mouth, but Stacy held her hand up, silencing him.

"You're right. Nothing's changed. I love you, Greg. You're smart and funny and life with you is rarely boring."

"Stacy," he said, his eyes on the floor.

"No, listen to me." Stacy was closer to him, now, and he was standing with his back to the kitchen sink, the metal cold against his skin. He couldn't look anywhere but her face.

"Greg, I don't think you realise how unhappy you seem. Last week I woke up four mornings in a row to an empty bed. You were sitting in front of the television."

"If this is about the insomnia, it'll go away sooner or later. It always does. If you're that worried I can get Wilson to prescribe me something." He started to reach for another drink. Fuck it.

Stacy placed her hands on his forearms. They were cold. "Wilson prescribes for you?"

"He hasn't before," House said, and that was only half a lie, because Wilson didn't know about the prescription slip House slipped out of his pad and filled at a pharmacy in Edison, last year. Things like that were easy to hide. A bottle in his desk drawer at work, lying awake with his thoughts racing like freight trains in the dead of night, Stacy asleep next to him. House's mouth tasted like beer, bitter.

Stacy's voice was trembling, too. "Greg, you're unhappy. You sink into black moods for days, and you hate people, and you drink too much when you hate people."

House didn't say anything for a while. He didn't reach for the beer. "I'm too unhappy for you?"

Stacy shook her head. She put a hand on his shoulder. "I wasn't angry. It's late. Come to bed. Get some sleep."

"Unhappy. I don't understand, what, is it contagious?" House leaned forward. His voice was loud again, a sick sort of anger bubbling up through his stomach, hot and tight in his chest.

Stacy stood in the doorway, her face blank. "Don't make a thing of this." A thing.

House felt something hot-cold creep up the back of his neck. "Stacy, you act like a frigid bitch for a week and this is the answer? What the-"

Stacy's face was hard, her hands on her hips. "Don't you dare be that asshole, Greg, don't you dare. I was worried about you."

"I don't need you to be worried!" House walked into the living room, his shoulders tight. _Here we go_, he thought. He grabbed a pair of shorts off the couch, took off his pyjama pants, and pulled them on. Stacy said "Oh, right, just go for a run, don't talk about anything."

"I found the shrink's pamphlet in your bag. What, you were going to drag me along to be analysed?"

"I wanted to help you!" Stacy's shouting now, too. Her hands were clenched at her sides, hard and white.

"_That_ is help? Consulting some hack without my knowledge?"

"It's not like that."

"No, don't talk down to me with that condescending _shit_, Stacy. Remember what I said? No shrinks."

He was breathing very hard. Stacy crossed her arms again, her voice trembling. "Greg, look, I know-"

"-No, you don't. _You don't... know_. You've got no fucking idea."

She put her hands against her face, then, and he grabbed his sneakers from the closet, a sharp pain at the back of his throat. He forgot socks but ran anyway, ignoring pace and gait and the blisters forming on his heels, everything but the thoughts bouncing around in the screaming emptiness of his skull. He couldn't draw them together, so he ran until he got most of the way to the hospital, then realised where he was and jogged back, barechested in the cold, his stomach roiling.

When he got home and took off his sneakers, he could hardly walk. He turned the television on and sat on the couch, watching dawn lighten the dark grey square of the window. His feet throbbed. His breathing returned to normal. He didn't sleep.

An alarm. Drawers opening and closing. Stacy tiptoed through the house as she dressed, not pausing as she walked past the living room. House stepped into the bathroom as she applied her makeup.

"You're not going to work?"

"I'm sorry," he said. He ignored the bags under her eyes, stepped forward to hug her from behind. She stiffened, sniffed. House's eyes hurt, so he closed them and rested his cheek on her shoulder for a second. He didn't know what he was sorry for.

"I'm late. I'll take your car." Stacy gathered some makeup, stepped through into the hall with her shoulders high and tight. Her voice was flat, strangled.

House put a hand on the back of his neck. His trapezius muscle was wound tight like a bow. "Stacy. This. It's not going to get any better."

Stacy turned at the door, stared at him for ten or fifteen seconds. House stood still, his bare feet cold on the floor, wondering how he should behave. "Look after yourself," Stacy said, and then she left.

House called in sick, changed the channel, and lay back on the couch. Wilson called some time in mid-afternoon, inviting himself over to watch the game that evening. House could hear Stacy in his concern, his elaborate courtesy. House examined the patterns on the ceiling, and when he tired of that he drank some beer and slept. He didn't mind kidding himself that it was only sleep he needed.

They didn't talk about it. Stacy didn't leave. That was the best House could hope for, really. This shaky balance, the thin wall between his life and the crushing weight of emptiness.


End file.
